


Pusher Love Boy

by daynight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, Drug Use, Fluff, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's weird drug dealer is really quiet and kind of rude but Steve likes him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 "He’s coming over here, is that okay?”

Clint swung round the door into the living room where they had all been sitting, two episodes in to 'Always Sunny', phone clutched to his ear. He stared pointedly at Steve.

“Huh? Who…what?”

Clint now had his back turned again, apparently not waiting for an answer as he continued to pace in the hall, mumbling affirmatives. Shrugging and turning back to the TV, Steve grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Sam’s lap. God knows what Clint was up to most of the time, he was an enigma that Steve didn’t have the energy to attempt to decode, especially when he was so relaxed, chilling with friends in his new apartment. About five minutes of Mac and Charlie making terrible decisions passed until Clint re-entered the room, flopping lazily on Steve’s other side and placing his feet up leisurely on Natasha, who was sprawled elegantly across the floor in her standard uniform of skin tight jeans and a black V neck, knee high heeled leather boots discarded near the door, her deep red hair falling in curls over her shoulders. Without tearing her eyes from the screen she batted his feet off with exaggerated annoyance that earned a chuckle.

“Who was that?”

“My side chick, you jealous?” She snorted derisively. “Nah, that was my dealer. He’s gonna be up in about ten.” Groans arose from the entire group.

“For god’s sake Clint! Why are you bringing him to my place?”

“You said it was okay!”

“No? What?” Steve turned to Sam, his best friend who could always be trusted to back him up, whether it be against frat losers who objected to his ‘cock-blocking’ in the student bar or the wayward whims of a very cool but often scatter-brained stoner friend who seemed to own no other clothes but way too revealing vests which tended to constantly expose at least one nipple and novelty trousers. “Sam, did I say that?”

“Nope.” Sam stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Well, it’s too late to change it up man, he’s on his way.”

“Ugh. Fine, whatever. You owe me if he turns out to be a crazy psychopath stalker who robs and murders me in my sleep.” Clint smirked in a way that would be appealing if it wasn’t so damned annoying.

“Why would he rob you? All you have is like, sketchbooks and a shitty old TV. And a PlayStation 2, but I doubt anyone would take that piece of junk if you begged.”

“Hey, the PS2 is cool. It’s got some great games.” Sam piped up defensively, earning him a warm smile from Steve. They had a lot of fun with that ancient thing back when they were roomies in first year, days that extended into nights sipping on beers and storming through all the old spyro games at a record pace.

“Fucking hipsters. Next you’ll be getting a vintage sega mega-drive.” Natasha drawled, rolling her eyes. Steve tactfully decided not to mention that he’d actually spent a couple of hours on eBay scoping them out.

"Whatever. You guys should relax; he’s just a college weed dealer. This isn’t breaking bad.”          

“Yeah I know, it’s just…” Clint laughed lightly and placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t worry little dude. I know him, he’s safe.” Steve scrunched up his face at the nickname that Clint constantly used but didn’t take offense the way he normally did when people highlighted his small stature. Clint called everyone different variations of dude, apart from Natasha. He valued the sanctity of his testacles too highly.

“I’m not a hipster.” Sam or ‘Bird dude’ (due to Clint and Sam’s bizarre shared passion for birds of prey) suddenly stated, finally catching up on the conversation after glazing over whilst staring at the screen. Natasha turned her wicked, sly cat face up to him, dressed rather ironically in a striped jumper and dark blue chinos, looking like a coverboy for Nylon magazine.

“You kind of are. In an I’m-a-star-football-player-but-spend-all-my-time-going-to-warehouse-raves-and-poetry-readings-with-a-skinny-little-twink kind of way. Macho jock with a sensitive side, its such a cliché.”

“No wonder you get so much pussy.” Sam elbowed Clint in retaliation, despite slightly smiling.

“Don’t be gross, man.” Clint elbowed Sam back, grinning. “I’d beg to differ.” He jostled up to Steve mischievously. “But we can all definitely agree, Steve is like, the biggest hipster there is. I don’t even think it’s intentional.”

“Woah, don’t turn this on me.” Natasha leant up and rested her arms on Steve’s knee, clothed in the soft plaid flannel of his pajama pants, in a surprisingly fond gesture.

"Don’t be mean. Let him listen to his indie-post-folk and wear his cute little retro glasses in peace.”

“I have bad eye-sight.” Steve huffed.           

“We know sweetie, we’re just teasing you.”

“Sweetie? Ew Nat.” Clint kicked at her with his foot as Nat blushed deeply, obviously embarrassed by her own out of character endearment, a momentary lapse in composure. Clint had once told Steve (in complete confidence, Natasha would kill him if she knew) that Natasha had a soft spot in her heart for Steve and only Steve ever since he had unwittingly defended her against a professor who accused Natasha of cheating on a paper during a Russian Literature lecture. Steve had pulled out all the stops, pretty much fully implied the guy was a sexist pig in that incongruently deep and clear voice of his. Now Steve didn’t have anything to do with the professor’s mysterious and sudden dismissal a couple days later but the action was remembered and appreciated nonetheless.           

After a couple minutes spent attempting to throw popcorn into Sam’s mouth, which Steve managed with an accuracy that stunned everyone, the doorbell rang. Wrapping up his decidedly obnoxious victory cheer and quickly assessing his outfit (pj bottoms and a huge white t-shirt that made him look approximately 14 years old, nothing too scandalous) Steve gingerly lifted himself from his sprawl on the couch, limbs creaking. He padded over to the door and swung it open, Clint following closely behind. The guy standing there, Clint’s ‘safe’ dealer appeared to be anything but safe. Clint’s dealer was wearing a black jumper, which was unraveling at the edges and worn out jeans, a pair of wayfarer sunglasses obscuring his eyes (dead stoner giveaway) with unusually long hair like a 90’s heartthrob and a stony expression. He was leaning up against the doorframe, one arm up like he was posing for a fucking photo shoot in a cheesy teen girl magazine.

“Clint.” Stated the guy, short and clipped. He's got a nice voice, thought Steve, who then cursed himself inwardly for standing there silently, like a lemon. Clint, shooting him a quick weird look, leant across Steve to address the guy like grunting someone’s name at them was a totally acceptable greeting.

"Hey dude, what’s up? How much you wanting for that?"

"The usual." He appeared to look; it was impossible to tell with the shades, over both Steve and the apartment behind them. "This your place? I remember it being shitter.” Damn, this guy had no manners whatsoever.

"Fuck you dude, it's comfy. Nah, this is Steve's place." Clint reached into the back of his stupid baggy camo pants to retrieve his money, tucked into a pocket because he didn't believe in responsible adult things like wallets. When Steve remained silent, he nudged him. "Say hi, Steve." Wishing he could glare at Clint without being too obvious, Steve muttered a quick hello. The guy glared at Steve under the shades, scowling slightly, as he took Clint’s money, tucking it away, then reached around to a battered black rucksack to retrieve the goods.

"Nice apartment." His voice was tinged with sarcasm.

"Thanks?"          

He handed over the bag, which Clint accepted with a big grin.           

"Thanks. You wanna come in, chill a bit?" The guy ran his hand, partially covered by the raggedy sleeves of his jumper, through his long hair and shook his head.

"Nah. Gotta run. See you around." He slung his rucksack back over one shoulder, cool as anything, then fixed Steve directly in his shaded gaze, mouth twitching downwards like he just smelt something really unpleasant. Flushing a little at this unexpected and undeserved vehemence, Steve gaped as he slunk off down the stairs and into the night. Clint pouted.

"He never wants to hang."

"Well, it is my place, why do you keep trying to invite people round? Also, what the hell was that guys problem?"

“What? Bucky? He’s always like that, man. Icy.”

“He seemed to reaaaaaallly dislike me.”

“Yeah? Who doesn’t.” Clint playfully shoved him and turned to go back to the living room.

 After smoking two joints with Natasha out the window, as not to bother Steve's asthma, Clint was leaving along with Sam who was wrapped up in his big vintage letterman they had found in a thrift store in Brooklyn when they went back to visit Steve's mom. Natasha was sleeping at Steve's that night to go to an early dance recital that was closer than her place, she was already taking up Steve's bed, wearing a pair of Clints ugly tie dyed hippy trousers and one of Steve's many patriotic t-shirts (this one emblazoned with an eagle and a huge American flag that was sadly brought only half out of irony), seeing as they were about the same size. Her outfit was complete with an eye mask that had the words ‘FUCK OFF’ embroidered across it and she looked, settling into Steve’s covers with one of his many heavy WW2 books, pretty perfect. Bidding her goodnight, Steve settled into the camp bed in the living room. It wasn’t great for his back, but it would have just been plain rude not to give up his bed for her, despite her protestations.

Drifting into dreams, Steve was struck with fitful sleep, haunted by visions of Clint’s weird unfriendly drug dealer chasing him down through Paddy’s Pub, apparently in hate with Steve at first sight.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Days passed, full of art classes, gallery visits, nights spent letting Natasha trying to set him up with a veritable menagerie of unsuitable men and women, downtime with Sam, who never treated him like he had anything wrong with him although he was the picture perfect football star and Steve was this little waif with multiple ailments. He spent a lot of time trying to forget about Peggy, his unreasonably attractive girlfriend of half a year who broke up with him when she moved back to London, which was hard because half of his tea cups (barely used after she left) were stained with her retro red lipstick, a constant reminder every time he looked in his cupboards. She, along with Sam, had always been so normal with him, no fussing, no treating him lightly and no pity. He liked that. Clint treated him like shit, but he didn’t mind because he made him laugh and the flesh coloured hearing aid they both wore made it clear that they had more in common than would normally be assumed when you saw a weirdly hot, tanned stoner wearing bright purple sweatpants and a tiny pale blonde in oversized arran knits walking together. Natasha tended to mother him a little but he made an exception for her because she didn’t seem to have any tenderness reserved for anyone else.

All of his friends were out for the night and beseeched him to come too, Sam reminding him that perhaps meeting someone would help him keep his mind of Peggy, whom he could imagine swanning around London like she owned it and had to mentally fight himself from saying ‘fuck it all’ and giving up his degree for a ticket straight to Heathrow, despite how pissed off everyone would be with him. Deciding it was perhaps a good idea, despite having little to no luck with anyone (Peggy, he decided, was a fluke. A beautiful European fluke) he had joined them, rocking up at what could only described as a palace in his favourite tartan shirt that apparently made him look like a Lumberjack’s wife and ripped jeans. He was settled now in some weird yoga room in the enormous house, dwarfed by enormous thow cushions among shaggy rugs and wall tapestries.

"I'm glad you decided to come, Steve" Natasha, all done up to the nines in a silky black camisole trimmed with lace and her usual jeans and boots, smiled as she produced a whole bottle of her favourite Russian vodka from her bag.

"And miss seeing the inside of this place?" Tony Starks off campus digs looked pretty ostentatious from the outside, but that was nothing in comparison to the interior. Who has a whole room devoted to yoga? It was like nothing Steve had ever seen, most of his friends just scraping by in tiny flats, his own childhood home a pokey little place in the not yet gentrified part of Brooklyn. "Just how rich is this guy?"

"Oh he is looaaaaded. And he throws amazing parties." Piped up Gabe, who passed Steve a Bud Light. His band, the infamous 'Howling Commamdos' were all pretty good friends with Steve, had even offered him the position of lead singer when their English vocalist Monty came down with the flu, despite the fact that his singing sounded like a choirboy who smoked a pack of 40 a day.

The drummer, Duggan, also known as 'Dum Dum' (for his drumming or his intellectual aptitude, it was unclear) was smoking a cigar that he had somehow procured from the house, the owner too rich to care that people were both raiding his cigar boxes and wine cellar. Clint and Sam were stretched out next to Natasha. Clint, who was both reasonably stoned and drunk by this point, kept on attempting to sling his leg over Sam and kiss Natasha at the time, reeling both of them in, to their identical chargrin. "God damn it Clint!" Sam hissed, looking flustered. "We are not going there again!" Steve barked out a laugh. A couple of months ago, to the deep deep embarrassment of the other participants, Clint had somehow managed to get them both back to his after a crazy night of alcohol, and seemed adamant that the incident would not be forgotten, no matter how hard they tried.

The party was raring, red cups littering the beautiful house, bright lights and thumping bass relentless. Steve had only had a couple drinks but he knew his limits after a few bad nights where he had to be carried home by Sam, princess style, shouting about sunsets and Peggy. It was getting a little much so he decided to take a break, stepping through the huge glass patio doors into the ornamental garden. It was a mistake, Steve could make out a small group out there in the dark which included Brock Rumlow and his lame cronies with their matching 'hydra' frat jackets.

"Shit." He whispered under his breath. Brock was not a big Steve Rogers fan. Not since Steve had thwarted one of his sick hazing rituals which involved forcing the freshers to drink a disgusting liquid concoction by switching everyone's drinks around surreptitiously so the freshers enjoyed a nice fresh orange juice and Brock got a well deserved taste of his own medicine. Luckily Brock, who had promised Steve another black eye for his little prank, didn't seem to notice him. Steve edged into the foliage and watched. They were all crowded around a tall guy dressed in black, talking and joking rowdily, slapping him on the back in typical ‘bro’ fashion. The man in black, hood up and unrecognizable, was grinning widely as he left them,his teeth flashing white and feral in the darkness. Unfortunately he ended up heading straight for where Steve was hiding behind a hedge and barreling straight into him as he turned back to wave at the little group of hydra jerks.

“What the hell!”

“Ouch. Check where you’re going next time man!” Steve pulled himself out of the hedge of which he had become half embedded in, the twigs scratching him unpleasantly, not yet looking at his assailant.

“Check where I’m going? How the fuck was I supposed to know there’d be someone hidden in the fucking hedge.” His voice was nasty but not unfamiliar, deep and noticeably New York. He pushed his hood back and Steve realised from the Edward Furlong-esque hair that they had indeed met before. Clint’s weird drug dealer. He was now looking at Steve from behind those Ray Bans (sunglasses at night made him look especially shady) , expression unreadable but mouth slightly open in mutual recognition. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yep, it’s me.” Steve prickled with annoyance. He barely knew the guy and he was acting like running into Steve meant that his loser germs were going to rub off on him. His side twinged, so he huffed and twisted around, lifting up his shirt to inspect the damage, noticing that his back was a little scratched from the spiky foliage. When he looked back up he noticed Drug Dealer’s sunglassed gaze following his movement devotedly, lingering on the shirt edge like it was on fire. “What?” He spat, irritated that a) this guy, not only unpleasant but a ‘bro’ of Rumlow’s was just standing there, not bothering to either get the hell away from him or apologize and b) he managed to get himself injured by a fucking bush.

“Are you okay?” Unexpected. The guy was rocking back on his heels.

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch.”

“You must have reaaaally sensitive skin.”

“Fuck off.”

The guy looked away, clenching his jaw then swung his ever present backpack around, to rifle through it. He reached in and produced both a bottle of beer and an expertly rolled joint. He thrust both of them out to Steve.

“Here.”

“I don’t…got asthma.” The guy unexpectedly did not make a crack about it and shoved the joint in his own mouth instead but continued to push the bottle at Steve.

“Whatever, take it.”

“Ooookay.” Steve hesitatntly took the bottle, reaching into his jeans for his keychain bottle opener. The guy looked about and spotted a bench in the corner, sitting down. He pulled a black zippo out of his pocket and lit the end of the joint, achingly cool as he puffed to get it going. Silence fell as Steve awkwardly stood for a moment and the guy kind of stared at him expectantly until he went over to join him, sitting on the other end of the bench. The guy held the smoke then exhaled away from Steve, one long stream dancing and spiraling in the night air. The guy looked over at him shortly then sighed.

“Can’t see a fucking thing.” He muttered to no one in particular, taking off his ridiculous sunglasses. Steve glanced up from the beer to see an unexpectedly handsome face with a sharp angular jaw, pudgy cheeks, pouty lips and huge blue eyes with thick lashes. So Clint’s weird drug dealer was incredibly hot. It was certainly a twist that Steve hadn’t seen coming. The guy breathed in the joint again and Steve couldn’t help but focus on him, his eyebrows knitting together, his glazed and slightly red tinged blue eyes. He had to quickly avert his gaze when the guy turned back to Steve. “I’m Bucky.” Clint had said Bucky but Steve hadn’t actually thought that was his name, just some stupid Clint-ism. It was weirdly cute, like something you would call your dog. He decided not to voice this particular thought. Although Bucky was being oddly friendly in his own unique way (staring, forcing Steve to sit with him without saying anything, giving him beer) he still looked like he could beat Steve’s little ass with zero effort. Plus he was friends with Rumlow, apparently, which definitely upped the ass-kicker potential.

“I’m Steve.”

“I know. You said. Last time.” Steve winced. Of course he did. He was surprised the guy remembered though.

“Sooo.”

“So.” This was too awkward, and Steve made a motion to get up. Bucky’s eyes darted over to him and he stretched out, legs opening wider and arms slung around the back of the bench, purposefully casual. He suddenly spoke up again. “What are you doing here? Didn’t figure you were much of a partier.” Steve flushed. He may look like an innocent kid with his blonde hair and baby face but he was probably the same age as Bucky and had been to his fair share of parties, he was an Art student for god’s sake.

“Hey. You don’t even know me. And I’m here with friends.” Bucky nodded slowly. “You here with friends too? Rumlow’s lot?” Bucky scowled and made a noise of disgust.

“No. Why would I be friends with those jack-offs?” Bucky seemed irritated at this assumption. “I’m their dealer.”

“You were being pretty friendly.”

“You watching me kid?” Steve reddened deeply and Bucky turned to him and honest to god, he smiled. His eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up into the warmest looking grin Steve had ever seen. Inexplicably charming. He almost fell off the bench in shock. “Nah, it pays to be friendly. Especially when I charge them almost twice as much.” He smiled again, looking more like mischevious boy than a grungy dealer and Steve choked out a laugh.

“That’s great.” Bucky shrugged, smile playing on his lips.

“So you take art, huh?”

“How did you…”

“Paint on your jeans. Plus I uh, see you sometimes. Outside the studios.” Steve wasn’t particularly surprised. It was where quite a few dealers hung out, smoking roll ups and waiting out of the way of security who never seemed to bother with that area of campus. Funny that Steve had never noticed him before.

“Yeah I do.”

“That’s pretty cool.” When he didn’t elaborate as to what he took, Steve decided not to pursue it. He was probably a drop-out who only hung out on campus to deal. Might be a sore spot. He groped for a new conversation topic, suddenly eager to chat, and was reminded of the guys familiar accent.

“Hey, are you from New York?”

“Brooklyn. Why?”

“Ah, me too.” Bucky’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be nudging closer to Steve.

“No shit! Whereabouts?” Steve launched into a detailed descrition of home, and as it turned out Bucky hadn’t grown up very far away from him at all. They even shopped at the same supermarket. They were talking easily now, accents growing more and more Brookyln as they swapped jabs and jokes, only understood by natives. Bucky’s laconic demeanor was slipping into something brighter and cuter the more he spoke, blue eyes shining as they reminisced about Coney Island.

“Do you go back much?” Bucky looked down, face darkening. He pulled the dwindling joint out of his mouth and crushed it underfoot.

“Nah. No one there anymore.” He was back to being closed off again and Steve winced , furious with himself for bringing up something that was obviously painful and wishing he could get that charming, easy-going guy back. Bucky was closer now and Steve kind of wanted to put his hand on his arm, give it a reassuring squeeze. Bucky would probably punch him in the face.

“Steve?? STEVE! Where the hell are you?” Natasha was wandering around the garden, hands cupped over her mouth.

“Oh shit.” Steve mumbled, standing up and searching for her in the darkness. “Hey Buck, could I get your…” He looked back down to the bench and Bucky was gone without a trace.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Steve was thinking about him. A lot. He couldn’t help it. He kept checking the smokers outside the art department, looking for all black, sunglasses, long brown hair but only earnt suspicious looks in response and occasionally offers for illicit substances. This was so annoying.

Sharon caught up with him as he took a break from studio time to go to the library. She was in the studio opposite, making a huge orb like statue. Althought their work was very different, Steve mostly focused on painting and Sharon involved in post-modern sculpture, they had a lot of respect for one another and had dated for a short enough time that there as nothing awkward between them.

“You going to the library? I’ll join.” Steve needed a big reference book, preferably greek and roman, for one of his latest works. Throwing himself into his studio time was the way he had dealt with Peggy leaving, and he intended on doing the same to forget about the mysterious drug dealer who had managed to charm him for one night and now wouldn’t leave his brain. They entered the library and got to the large book section. Steve was irritated when some guy attempted to flirt with him by getting a book down from a higher shelf, handing it to him with a smirk. He may have been short but he wasn’t useless and he hated when guys treated him like he was weak. He may look pretty feminine but hated being handled like he was vulnerable by either men or women.

“Steve!” Sharon was crowding over to him, nudging and whispering. “It’s beautiful grungy gym guy!”

“What? Who is that?”

“Some guy I see all the time in the gym. Okay, you wouldn’t know it with all those clothes on but he is gorgeous, my god.” She motioned through the gaps in the bookshelves. “Look!”

Steve stared through the shelves, eyes narrowing. He could make out the shape of a guy in a black fur trimmed parka with the hood done all the way up, surrounded by books. Sharon breathed in his ear. “He’s really quiet but like, super buff. And he has a really cool tattoo on his arm under all that black.” The guy shifted so his face could finally be made out, the slope of his nose, long eyelashes and plush lips highlighted by the fur trim, dark brown hair falling in his face as he read. It was Bucky. Of course.

Sharon continued to stare, finally getting bored when he didn't really do anything but chew his pen and read, sashaying back to the studios. Steve stayed, claiming he needed to get more books but proceded to watch Bucky in rapt admiration. 'Study Bucky' was completely endearing. He stayed with his hood done up the entire time like the library was the deep arctic, looking adorable with just his face poking out of his hood as he scrunched up his nose in confusion. He sucked a redbull on the table from a straw, not even bothering to pick it up whilst he leafed through books. Every now and again he would sigh deeply and lay his head down on the table, smooshing his face against the wood in frustration.

Steve couldn’t blame him, the books all looked incredibly diffucilt, all focused on science or biomechanics. Steve felt guilty, he had written Bucky off as dealer drop out whilst it was becoming apparent that he was actually a very serious student. Admonishing himself for being a judgemental asshole, Steve noticed that Bucky was leaning back, resting his pen on his upper lip whilst pouting as he considered a page. He leant back a little too far then almost fell, feet flying up as he let out a little yelp. Before he could stop himself, steve let out a surprised laugh. Bucky was pretty dorky in private, in the sweetest way possible. Bucky’s eyes darted up, looking around for the source of the noise and steve got the hell out of there, almost running out of the library, scattering a couple books in the process. He was breathless when he got back to the studio, wheezing a bit but he felt pretty alive. He knew what he wanted now, he just had to make the first move and pray to god he didn't end up looking like a huge idiot like usual.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Hey Clint, what’s up?” Steve was at his apartment, spinning at his little desk chair in his room, full of pent up anxiety. He had spent all day formulating a plan to get to Bucky, and had decided to put it into action. It had to happen otherwise he was going to go crazy with thinking about him. His artwork was even starting to look a bit like him, familiar wide eyes and plump lips. Steve needed finality, whether it be rejection (most likely outcome) or otherwise.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing…why do you assume I want something?”

“Cuz I know you. Plus I’m in a really bad mood dude, had a shitty date. You remember that Kate girl?”

“The one who’s way too good for you?”

“Well she smoked me at archery and thinks I’m a loser…I have to get drunk tonight. You in?” Steve smiled fondly but shook his head, forgetting that Clint couldn’t actually see him down the phone.

“Nah man I have…other plans. Hey, just wondering, what was B…your dealers number?” Steve bit his lip, blushing and waited for Clint’s response. He fully expected to have to make up some elaborate lie about needing Bucky’s number. Clint knew he didn’t smoke and would probably find the request incredibly suspicious. Or he’d figure, rightly, that Steve had an unrequited crush and tease him relentlessly. Funnily enough, after a couple beats of silence, Clint didn’t react in the way Steve expected.

“I’ll text it to you.” Steve breathed out a sigh of relief and grinned.

“Thanks man. Hey, I think Nat and Sam are free tonight. Round up the troops, I’ll call you at 6AM tomorrow when you’re most hungover.”

“Hahaha will you fuck. See you tomorrow champ. Have fun.”

Have fun. Hmm. Was Clint on to him? Steve chose not to consider it too deeply. The text came through quickly and Steve’s heart leapt to his chest. It was now or never. He looked down at the number and typed out a quick text.

‘Hey, could I get a small delivery? Apartment 4, Shield Building.” Half closing his eyes and peaking down at his phone, he swallowed his doubts and pressed send.

About 15 minutes later the doorbell rang and Steve, steeling himself, trudged over to the door. He swung it open bravely wearing a huge forced friendly grin to see Bucky, wearing grey baggy sweats, a hoodie and a navy baseball cap, looking like he just came from the gym. He wasn’t wearing his usual sunglasses and looked surprised and shy to see Steve at the door. Steve continued to smile at him, his cheeks beginning to hurt.

“Oh…hi.” Was Steve imagining his blush? ‘Is Clint here?”

“No, he’s not.” Steve said sunnily, flicking back his blonde hair as Bucky fiddled with his backpack straps, looking everywhere but at Steve.

“Oh shit. Well someone texted me to come here, thought it was him.”

“No. That was me.” Steve knew he was probably bright red right now but decided to soldier through. Bucky stared at him through his thick eyelashes, confused.

“But you don’t…”

“I don’t. It’s for you, if you want it. I’ll pay I mean, don’t think I wasted your time.” Bucky was silent as Steve grew more and more embarrassed, his bravado fading quickly. He scrubbed the back of his neck and continued. “I dunno if you’re busy and all. But yeah. It’s for you, if you wanna come in and smoke it in here? Maybe? You’d have to, uh, open the window. Or I'll cough up a lung." Shit, that wasn't very sexy. "It could be nice? I made dinner?”

Bucky had now taken hold of the doorframe as if to steady himself, pose now echoing the one he had struck when Steve first laid eyes on him, ignorant of all the trouble he was going to cause him. He cautiously looked up at Steve, smiling slightly.

“What did you cook?”

“Moussaka.”

“Fine.”

Bucky stepped into his apartment, adjusting his cap. Steve was a bundle of hyperactive energy, rushing to show him a place on the couch. He had cleaned up his apartment especially but now that he had Bucky here he didn’t quite know what to do. He didn’t plan this far.

“You really want me to smoke here?” Bucky was looking at him, one eybrow raised as Steve busied himself with the oven.

“Well, if you want?” Bucky shrugged, smiling again, and went over to the window, lifting the obstinate pane easily although it usually took Steve a couple of goes and a lot of heaving and grunting. Steve had the privilege of watching him shed his hoodie, revealing a long sleeved black Henley underneath. He could see all the muscles in his back shifting as he leant over, breathing out of the window. Sharon was right. Bucky really was a looker. His mouth felt incredibly dry.

“Quit staring.” Steve almost dropped the pan he was holding and Bucky laughed. It was an extremely nice laugh, deep but boyish and Steve wanted to hear it again. All the time. He wanted it as his ringtone. He finished up in the kitchen and flopped down on the couch.

“Hey Bucky?”

Bucky finished up at the window and closed it, padding down to the couch and sitting down. He was so close. Honestly, Steve had not expected him to take up his offer of dinner at all and it was pretty surreal that he was in here, sitting where Sam usually sat, looking at him expectantly. Bucky was way too good for him. He may have been a weird silent, surprisingly studious drug dealer but a very beautiful and cute one nonetheless. It didn’t make sense.

“What?”

“I heard you had a tattoo.”

“Where did you hear that from?” Bucky seemed vaguely amused, like he knew he often the topic of gossip. He must be used to it, being that handsome. Maybe that was why he always wore sunglasses and a hoodie, like a celebrity. Steve was often the topic of gossip too but it wasn’t always the good kind.

“Just…” Steve gestured in the air “Around.” Bucky smirked in a cocky but incredibly attractive way and began taking off his shirt.

“Woah woah! What are you doing??” Steve was so red he felt he was about to implode. Bucky’s expression was carefully blank but Steve could see an edge of amusement to his features.

“Showing you.”

“O-oookay” Bucky slipped out of his shirt elegantly. He looked just like something out one of Steve’s classical sculpture books, apart from the large tattoo that ran down his arm, it’s focal point a big red star on his shoulder. It looked amazing, to be honest Bucky looked amazing all over. His skin was lightly tan, he was huge in comparison to Steve, broad shoulders tapering down, masculine and strong. His long hair was brushing the tops of his bare shoulders. It looked soft. Steve felt like running and hand through it then thought better of it, gulping audibly. Steve had liked a couple of guys, he knew he did, but he'd only ever been with women, despite the rampant rumours around campus connecting him with Sam and several male tutors. He had never wanted to take anything further with a guy until now. Bucky was different. Steve thought he was both the cutest and the hottest person he had met and it was making him really fucking nervous. He could feel himself sweating and Bucky just looked cool as ever, staring at him like he was malfunctioning as he began to ramble uncontrollably.

“Hey, did you hear the alarm? Can you smell burning? I think it’s burning, do you think it’s burning? I’ll go check…” He began lurching up to escape from the incredible awkwardness and perhaps one-sided sexual tension when a strong warm hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. He toppled down on top of Bucky with an astonished yelp. He was way too close now. He could feel the heat of Bucky’s skin through his shirt, his big hand now wrapping round his back, holding him close, simultaneously maddening and comforting.

“You’re a weird kid. Acting so shy when you’re the one who invited me in.” Stated Bucky, fixing Steve in the glare of his glacial blue eyes. “But I like you.” He pulled Steve down further, closing the gap in between them with his lips.

The Moussaka burnt.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The news was way too good for phone calls so Steve rushed to Clint’s place in person after Bucky left for class. He had woken up to see Bucky sitting on the end of his bed, rolling his shirt back on and staring at him thoughtfully, then blushing beet red when he noticed Steve was awake and scarpering off with a promise to meet him after his lesson. Steve felt like he had just won a boxing match with Mike Tyson or smoked 5 of Bucky's joints. High as a kite and Fucking amazing.

He knocked on the door and was somewhat surprised when Sam groggily opened it instead, his eyes immediately widening.

“Steve…what are you doing here?” Steve scanned Sam, who was shifting nervously.

“Sam…why are you wearing Clint’s shirt?”

“I…”

“And Nat’s boxers?”

“I…oh fuck it!” Sam wordlessly threw his jacket on over the shirt, pulled on a pair of shoes and bolted, fuming. Whatever he was leaving, he was willing to put himself through an incredibly embarrassing walk of shame to get away from. Natasha's boxers may have been unisex, but they weren't particularly modest. Steve watched as Natasha, in a similar state of undress emerged from the bathroom and pulled on her coat, scowling angrily and muttering in Russian. Clint ran from the bedroom, naked apart from a sheet gathered around his waist.

“Guys! Nat! Sam! Don’t leave! We can go again! What we had was beautiful! The dream team! Don’t go! Noooooooo” Natasha gave Steve a look that conveyed ‘talk about this again and I will murder you’ and stalked out the door. Clint looked up at Steve sheepishly. “So things got a little crazy last night.”

“I can see that.” Clint shrugged and shuffled to the kitchen, which seemed to be half destroyed, cans of whipped cream and feathers (?) lying about that Steve definitely didn’t want an explanation for.

“Don’t worry, they’re just pissed that they gave me the satisfaction of it happening again. They’ll learn to accept it next time. Can’t deny our raw sexual compatability. ” He grinned and began rolling a joint from his matierials on the kitchen table which Steve was purposefully not touching, unsure of what sinful activity may have happened upon it. “How was your night?”

“Well, you know your drug dealer?”

“Oh, Bucky finally got up the courage eh?”

“What?”

“That guy. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since that time he came over. Every time I buy it’s always ‘where’s your friend’, like he doesn’t even give a shit about me. One time we got super high and he told me about this time when he saw you trip over and drop your portfolio outside the studio, like that shit was really cute. Sickening.”

Steve remembered dropping his portfolio. It was incredibly embarrassing.

It was also back in freshman year.


	2. Chapter 2

“So you fucked him?”

“What? No! That would be…really forward.”

“So you just kissed?”

“Uh…not exactly.” A few very very x-rated memories flashed through his mind. Bucky lying over him in his bed, shirt off, soft hair hanging in his face and looking very anomalous among Steve’s star patterned sheets. Whispering things that seemed both tender and dirty in another language (Russian?) as his lips dragged along Steve’s ear lobe. Steve’s pale arms wrapped around his warm neck, clinging on for dear life and practically reverberating out of his skin as Bucky’s big, tattooed hand roved across his chest then down, down, down…

“Steve!”

“He’s really, really hot….like you can talk about proper conduct when…”

“DO NOT bring up what you’re about to bring up.”

Natasha frowned deeply and picked her sandwich back up to take an enormous bite, chewing angrily. Steve had finally caught up with her at their favourite sandwich shop after leaving Clint settled in front of the TV, chuckling at an old episode of the Simpsons with both a bowl of green and a bowl of cereal, completely unbothered by the rage he had induced in both Natasha and Sam. She had her coat done all the way up, cleverly hiding that she was still only wearing Sam’s white button up and Clint’s checked boxers. Steve held up his hands, laughing.

“Okay, okay. Not a word.” Steve leaned back in the booth of the sandwich shop, beaming brightly. Natasha scowled, pressing at her forehead gingerly. Steve got out his phone, an excellent idea popping into his head. 

‘Hey Bucky’ He began to text. ‘It’s Steve.-’ Damn, he should probably be clearer than that. Despite what Clint had said (something that he would have to muse over in great detail later, if it didn’t give him a heart attack) random hook-ups might be a regular occurrence for him. They definitely could be, despite Bucky’s bad manners. If Bucky acted more polite, showed a few more people his charming side, he’d probably have half of the entire campus on his knees. Plus he had seemed pretty damn experienced. Or maybe just amazingly talented. Blushing, Steve continued the text.

‘- You know, from last night. I’m at Benny’s, wondering if you wanted a sandwich?’ 

Breathing in deeply, Steve pressed send, avoiding the amused glances of Natasha, who was polishing off her sandwich, finally looking a bit more human.

His phone buzzed almost immediately and Natasha barked out a mocking laugh as Steve fumbled to check it, his stomach bubbling in nerves and excitement.

‘Of course I know who you are, punk. And yes, fucking hell. You’re perfect. X’


	3. Chapter 3

Ah shit.

When Bucky stomped up the dark stairs to this unfamiliar apartment to deliver for Clint, this was not what he was expecting. A menagerie of clint-alikes all wearing baggy harem pants and grinning idiotically, maybe, but not this. 

Tiny blonde guy was blinking up at him owlishly as he leant up against the door. Him. Tiny blonde guy from the studios. He was especially vulnerable looking, clad in comfy looking pj’s like a little kid, his pants swamping him and pooling around his bare feet. Despite being the more dressed of the two, Bucky was not at all prepared for such a sight in the slightest and felt incredibly exposed, even behind his favourite sunglasses. Did he get the wrong door? That would be so extremely lame. He began to internally panic. 

Thankfully, Clint popped up behind tiny blonde guy, belligerent and scruffy as ever, in one of those weirdly revealing vests. These guys were friends? Seriously? Bucky didn't really figure them to run in the same circles. Little blonde guy had always seemed so serious, focused whilst Clint was just…well he was one of Bucky’s most demanding customers, that’s for sure. Life was full of surprises.

Bucky steeled himself to be cool and business like, leaving as quickly as he could with the new knowledge of this unexpected connection in his mind. How to process this information? He briefly considered stopping selling to Clint. If this was going to happen a lot, with that guy being there, staring at him with those big blue eyes he wasn’t sure that he could take it. 

No, that would be stupid. Economically stupid. Bucky shook his head sternly and headed to the library, deciding to just forget about it. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bucky sat in his cramped room, feet up and bouncing a ball against the wall. Classes were over and no one had texted, so he finally had a little spare time to kill, procrastinating and going over things in his head. 

He hadn't actually intended to become the college weed dealer. He had just kind of fallen into it. Smoking was a past time he dabbled in for relaxation purposes, he had all the knowledge and experience, whatever may be necessary to be a dealer at least. And maybe he had run with a kind of bad crowd in high school, Ivan, Pav, Russian gang members he knew through extended family. Bucky had never really gotten fully involved because his mom would not have allowed it, staying on the fringes as all his old buddies began to climb the chain of command. Not that he couldn’t hold his own with the best of them, earning him quite the reputation among even the more hardened guys. Bucky was known for having the best left hook around and hadn’t hesitated to show off a bit back in his wilder days. He had changed though. 

In his last years of high school he tried to be better so his Mom would stop sighing and getting upset at his detentions and bruised knuckles. Bucky studied like a fiend to land a scholarship to college. All those guys had slapped him on the back; proud that one of their 'boys' was making something of themselves. When his mom had the accident, he almost gave up, gave into the offers of a place among them. Pulling him back, Bucky remembered her happiness when he revealed his plans to be a doctor and had marched down to the tattoo parlour instead. The full sleeve, metallic plates and a great big star, was a testament to her and his heritage. 

Once he had arrived at college he soon realized that his scholarship may cover his education but not really his food or his living, and had called up some of his old connections to try to make some extra cash. Luckily he still had their respect to fall back on. It was a little risky, certainly not the riskiest thing he had ever done, but still not great. However, this was the only 'job' he knew how to do and the only one that allowed him to arrange his own schedule, spending all of the rest of his time in the library to keep up his grades or the gym to empty his mind after too many hours staring at textbooks. As for dating, since his mom had passed he found it hard to connect with anyone like that and he’s done his fair share of the meaningless stuff back at school. It was difficult to summon up feelings that weren’t there. There was only one person he thought that he could, just maybe, but it was a stupid thought so once again he pushed it out of his head. Way too good for him. Wasn’t going to happen. Forget about it.

With one loud huff, Bucky threw his ball against the wall one more time. His phone buzzed with a request and he slung on his hoodie and backpack, heading out into the night once more. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After dropping by Bruce Banner's (big customer, mostly friendly unless he’s in a bad mood) one evening, Bucky received another text from Clint and trudged up to his place. Clint was hanging by the door, smiling dozily. 

"You're always so punctual." 

"No friend with you this time?"

Clint looked a little surprised that Bucky was initiating conversation for once (their interactions were usually very one-sided, consisting of Clint attempting to entice Bucky to hang out and Bucky responding with his normal frostiness) but recovered quickly. 

"What, Natasha? She's hot, right?" Clint lazily grinned.

"Nah, the little blonde guy." 

"Oh, Steve rarely comes to my place. He hates the mess." Of course he does. Trying not to be disappointed, Bucky handed the weed over silently then left.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

A couple of weeks later, Bucky was summoned to a party at Tony Stark’s place by Rumlow and his cronies. The brief socialization with those noted arseholes was going to be fairly excruciating, but money was money and Bucky liked to make sure he rinsed those guys badly. He also knew a couple more people at the gathering who wanted, including it’s infamous party animal host, more of a blow guy (something Bucky strictly had not dabbled in since high school) but he sometimes liked something chill for the morning after, which Bucky was more than happy to provide as the guy was rolling in cash. It was going to be a pretty productive night. 

“Barnes, my man!” Rumlow clapped Bucky on the back with his meaty hand, his cohorts chuckling. “Have you got my…” he waggled his eyebrows ridiculously “…stuff?”

“Sure, right here man.” Rumlow was always severely un-chill about buying marijuana; always acting like everything he knew about it came straight out of a Seth Rogen feature and smoking made him exponentially cooler. Bucky bantered with his crew for a few painful moments then left as soon as the exchange was over, moving swiftly to his next party as he’d just got a text about another soiree at Hammers house for him to hit up. After a few strides he barreled straight into a tiny figure, hidden behind a hedge. 

God must be playing a cruel trick on him as the small obstacle of a guy dusted himself off. It was Steve, Clint’s friend and Bucky’s sometime daydream, if he let his mind wander. He was angry, fire in his eyes, and apparently hurt. Bucky's heart panted at the knowledge that he was the cause. He could just be rude, walk away, avoid it but… Bucky held in a deep sigh and decided it was time to take a leap of faith. 

And in the end he still managed to fuck up, leaving as soon as things started to get a little difficult, as soon as he was close to opening up. Probably better that way. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

‘Hey man, can I get a 20 bag?’

Bucky looked at his phone then ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t want to leave his room that night but he was getting low on cash and Clint was a sure thing. He picked up his hoodie and rucksack and darted off to his apartment. 

“So do you wanna come in? I was gonna like, marathon Dog Cops, it’s gonna be sick!” Clint grinned, hooking his thumbs into his incredibly low cut tie-dye vest. It didn’t sound sick, not at all, and Bucky had denied many similar unappealing proposals, which is why he was surpised to hear the words ‘Yeah, okay’ coming out of his own, very traitorous mouth. 

5 Episodes of Dog Cops and 5 joints later and Bucky had stopped wondering what the hell he was doing and started to just kind of enjoy the moment, his brain all hazy and fuzzy and pleasantly serene. He even found himself chatting to Clint, at first it was idle stupid shit about dog cops, then it was Clint rhapsodizing about how much he loved his friends, which naturally led to talk of Steve. His mouth was betraying him once again and he started to involuntarily smile when he heard his name.

“That guy…I remember the first time I saw him.” Bucky blushed, smiling bashfully. 

“What like, at Steve’s?”

“No, a couple of years ago. He was walking out of the studio, had a huge folder with him and he tripped over…he just…tripped over. All of his artwork fell out and it’s really good and he was trying to pick it all up and he was so red.” Bucky snorted, the memory cracking him up. 

“That’s super dorky man! That’s so Steve.” Clint laughed and Bucky laughed a little bit too then stifled it, waving his hands wildly.

“No, no I mean it was really cute!”

“Cute? Seriously man?”

“Shut up dude, it was!” Bucky laughed again, hiding his face in his hands. This was something he had kept to himself, the little fragments of time that he saw tiny guy outside the art block, the ones that sometimes made his day if it had been difficult. He never noticed Bucky, lurking near a wall in his black hoodie but he was always so bright and sunny, with his fluffy head of blonde hair, that he improved everything around him. Once Bucky watched him get in an argument with a guy who made fun of a girl in a wheelchair, puffing up his tiny frame and squaring up like he was 6 foot 2. Luckily the guy backed away before it got serious otherwise Bucky would have had to break the promise he made to his ma about fighting, but he had always admired that. Always thought about it. Thought about how he came from Brooklyn, just like him and reminded him of all the things he missed from home. Thought about his checked shirts and thin wrists and strong character. The way he smiled when they had talked, the way his blue eyes had shone in the dark of the garden. All that cheesy shit. It was so embarrassing he kind of wanted to take it all back, but it was sort of refreshing to think about it, all the things that he had been pushing away, forcing himself to forget about.  
Clint was smiling at him fondly now, and nudged him conspiratorially.

“Do you like, want his number or something?” 

“What? No! No of course not…it’s not. Like that. He would never…” 

Clint bit his lip as if to hold in another laugh and turned his attention back to Dog Cops.

“Whatever you say, man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your lovely comments! If you wanna chat, come talk to me on tumblr http://honourgirl.tumblr.com i'm trying to be more active with it… hope you enjoy the latest update!


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of Moussaka filled the air and Bucky focused on the dark alley outside of Steve’s tiny window. What the hell was he doing here? What the hell was happening? His insides were thrumming and his heart was fluttering like a teenage girl at prom. _Control yourself, Barnes._ He took a deep toke of the joint and exhaled.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yes, he had been thinking of that tiny guy (Steve, his name was Steve) a lot. Maybe even more than he used to before he had made the mistake of actually meeting and interacting with his distant art studio crush. Maybe he thought about him all the fucking time. It was hard to admit, but it was true. When he was at the gym, sweating away a particularly fruitless study session, he thought about the one conversation that they had, the way that Steve had actually seemed interested in him, replaying it painfully on a loop. He was running faster than ever these days.

Bucky even stopped doing what had used to be one of his favourite activities, having a smoke outside the studios when he knew that Steve would be coming out of class, watching him fumble with his sketchbooks and laugh with his friends. Now he knew him (kind of) it was an off-limits activity, too weird and stalker-y. He needed to kill the very concept of meeting again. Nothing was going to happen between them. Nothing at all. 

For all he knew, dude was apparently straight, despite the ripped skinny jeans and cartilage piercing. Girls probably liked him. They always seemed to like cute, pretty guys who are sensitive and arty. Bucky seemed to recall seeing him hang with an absolute bombshell brunette with an hourglass figure that had a lot of his fellow smoker buddies enthralled. Bucky himself had focused on the flustered look of admiration on the little guys face, feeling embarrassed at the jealousy that spiked through him as he stared at the dame like the sun shone out of her ass. Or maybe he wasn’t straight; he certainly spent a lot of time with that jock looking guy who sometimes picked him up outside the studio. They seemed more platonic though. Bucky thought it would be impossible not to, like, kiss Steve and shit when they met, if you were dating him and sporty guy never did anything particularly affectionate, which would take some kind of super human self control in the face of something that adorable. 

However, despite suspending his weird art studio surveillance and trying to stop subtly goading Clint into divulging random titbits about Steve (which included his love of cheesy 80’s action movies and endearing partiality for Cannoli’s), Bucky couldn’t really shake this pervasive, soul-destroying crush. Instead of surrendering to it, he just decided to let it fester in the back of his mind, upping his trips to the library and the gym. Why, he couldn’t really say. Some of it was because he wasn’t good enough for a guy like Steve. He was too rough, too messed up and twisted. Bucky was sort of a professional drug dealer after all. Not the sort of mook that a sweet and perfect person deserved. The rest of it was that he was absolutely certain that Steve would never in a million years even be interested. Steve, according to Clint during one of his stoned rambles on the wonders of polyamory (for some reason Clint would not shut the fuck up about some thing going on between the hot red headed chick and the jock guy and him) had never even dated a dude, and he seemed to have hot women coming out of his ears. Natasha, the red head he occasionally saw at the Russian deli when he was in the mood for some more authentic food, that brunette dame with the English accent and curves (not sighted for a long time, though), the classy looking blonde from his art class that Bucky saw at the gym every now and again but never paid attention to until he realised she was somehow connected to Steve. Bucky digressed. It was better to forget it. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Just after finishing up at the gym and jogging back to his place, Bucky’s phone buzzed. The message requesting a delivery, definitely from Clint but on a new number, kind of threw him. The strange number wasn’t what was bothering him, Clint seemed to get a new phone every week due to carelessness, it was that the location for this drop-off was Steve’s apartment again. Was Clint trying to fuck with him? Had he picked up on Bucky’s weird interest that he tried his hardest to keep hidden? Part of Bucky was oddly excited about the concept and the other half really really didn’t want to go. He didn’t need that kind of stress, not that evening. Bucky reached up to his hair and pulled his hair out of the bun that he kept it in, chucking the hair tie on the floor in agitation. 

Bending over with a groan, Bucky pulled out checked his little tin moneybox he kept under his bed. It wasn’t well stocked enough to ignore the request and Bucky sighed deeply, scraping his hand through his long dark hair. Looks like he would have to go after all. If Clint was going to laugh about this, he was going to punch him in his fucking face. Surveying himself in the mirror, Bucky sighed at his appearance (gym clothes, fresh from the shower) and wished that he had a little more style, not that he was trying to impress anyone. At least his clothes were clean. He couldn’t be bothered to find his sunglasses and settled on shoving a dark blue cap over his long brown hair instead. It would have to do. He grabbed his rucksack and set out, nerves making his veins jump in anticipation.  


_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Walking up the stairs to the apartment, Bucky tried to keep his thumping heart in check as he approached the vaguely familiar door. He imagined Clint’s grinning, winking face and screwed up his eyes in embarrassment. Maybe Steve wouldn’t even notice him and he could just slink away without even needing to see him. That would be the ideal outcome. Or they could just exchange niceties and Bucky would try to ignore how much his heart hurt and that would be that. Or he could just be super rude again and make sure that Steve definitely hated him to seal the deal. Fuck this. He was going to have serious words with that punk Clint next time. Sighing in sad surrender, Bucky pressed down on the doorbell and waited. He was greeted, not by the tawny, eyebrow wiggling visage of Clint Barton, but by the beaming, blinding, sunshine smile of one Steve Rogers, looking like the best thing Bucky had ever seen. Shit.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Breathing in the joint that Steve insisted that he smoke, Bucky tried not to grin his stupid head off. This was insane. Better than his daydreams. Little Stevie was running around the place like a hyperactive puppy, blushing and making sure he was comfortable, which was beginning to upstage even the bambi fall in front of the studio in Bucky’s personal list of the ‘Cutest Things Ever To Have Happened’. Bucky felt so so weird. Nervous but happy. Really happy. He hadn’t felt like this in years and he had no idea what any of it meant. So Steve wanted him here? Did that mean he liked him? Why? Bucky felt like laughing at himself, hysterical at how silly he sounded in his head, how delirious and a little bit in love he was. Steve was probably just bored, or wanted to be friends. Friends. Not quite what he personally desired but to be honest he’d take it. Bucky found himself satisfied just to be near him, just to let that glow of goodness bathe him in warmth. How stupid he was to have denied himself this. 

Feeling overheated, Bucky pulled off his hoodie. He didn’t want to start fucking sweating all over the place, that would be majorly unattractive and he still had a bit of hope secretly burning in his chest. Not in front of Steve. Whilst putting his hoodie down over his rucksack on the floor, he snuck a quick glance at Steve who appeared to be rather unabashedly staring at him. Bucky startled, his heart in his throat but Steve appeared not to notice. What the fuck? This was fucking unprecedented but incredible. Steve, cute Steve with the little jumpers and Doc Martens that Bucky had fantasized about for over 2 years, was checking him out. Bucky rolled his shoulders indulgently and went back to smoking. _Don't fuck this up Barnes, don’t you dare mess this up._

“Quit staring.” It was worth it to see Steve struggle with the pan, flushing like a strawberry. Bucky finished the joint and flicked it, watching it fall into a puddle in the alley below before closing the creaky window and settling on the couch, just to feel Steve near him as he sat on the opposite end. 

“Hey Bucky?” Steve was looking at him through thick, long eyelashes. _Jesus Christ._

“What?”

“I heard you had a tattoo.” Where the fuck had he heard that? Clint? Bucky supposed that some other people knew about it, sometimes heard people chattering about it but didn’t really care enough to find out what they were saying. Did this mean that Steve had been asking around about him? Bucky swore he felt his heart grow three sizes, like the fucking Grinch. 

Steve blushed again and tried to make up some bullshit, but Bucky was not letting this go. He couldn’t. Steve Rogers was interested in him, at least enough to go around asking questions. He also seemed to edging nearer, not intentionally and Bucky found a ghost from his past resurfacing. It had been such a long time since he had hung out like this, since he had been so at ease. It made it easier to become that ghost again, the guy with an easy charm who used to just be able to smirk to get girls slipping off their panties in a parked car outside school or behind clubs. Bucky had thought that guy was gone for good, but as he let one corner of his mouth twitch up he realised that maybe there were still shadows of him left. Only sometimes. And what would that guy have pulled at a moment like this? Before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was peeling off his shirt like a half-baked romantic hero from a Mills and Boone novel in a shameless seduction technique.  


To his huge surprise (he was a bit rusty, after all) the technique fucking worked. Bucky found himself pulling a gabbling Steve, who felt so small and delicate in his arms, right into his lap.

“You’re a weird kid. Acting so shy when you’re the one who invited me in.” He said, stroking his hand up that pale, spindly arm. “But I like you.” With that admission, Bucky took Steve’s face in his hand and kissed him. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Steve kissed like something else. Maybe he was amazing with his tongue or maybe Bucky was just so fucking happy that it felt just out of this world. Probably both. How was the little punk so good with his mouth? Bucky had kissed about five people over the course of the year at various parties, maybe gone a little further every now and again, but this was incomparable. Steve was in his lap, pressing up into his mouth, hot all over and as addictive as any drug Bucky had tried, sweet as honey. Bucky groaned slightly as Steve allowed him to press his tongue in further, feeling drunk with the warmth. Time moved sluggishly, blissfully slow. It felt like they’d been kissing for hours, years and for even longer Bucky knew he’d been embarrassingly hard. He didn’t want to push it, didn’t want to ruin this but as he shifted to wrap his arms around Steve more completely, to hold him even closer, he accidentally rolled his hips up against him and was rewarded with the sweetest gasp from Steve’s red-raw mouth. So Bucky did it again, his sweatpants chafing uncomfortably against Steve’s jeans, and again and again until he really couldn’t stop and Steve had begun to steadily make tiny little involuntary sounds that were driving him fucking crazy. 

“Shit” Steve panted, and that was it, the last straw. Bucky kind of growled (very weird, but Steve didn’t seem to mind, in fact he seemed to get more enthusiastic) and grabbed Steve roughly by the waist, tucking his hands under his legs and lifting him straight off the couch. Steve seemed suitably impressed with this show of strength and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck and his legs around his hips, letting himself be carried, kissing him blindly all the while. After Bucky stumbled about for a few steps then tore away reluctantly, they both breathlessly laughed at the realization that Bucky had no idea where Steve’s room even was. 

“Over there, on the left.” Steve whispered into Bucky’s ear, eyes shining. This momentary pause in rapturous groping allowed Bucky’s head to clear a bit. Maybe he was moving too fast. 

“Are you sure about this?” Steve scowled at him like a pissed off bunny rabbit, pulling a hand away from his neck to slap him lightly on the arm.

“Of course I am, you jerk. Now, kiss me again.” Bucky gladly complied, carrying Steve to the room and pushing the door open. He opened one eye and surveyed it. It was dark, lit only with the pleasant pinky glow of a retro purple lava lamp, but colourful, lots of art posters (Rothko?) and polaroid’s of friends adorning the light blue walls, a desk in the corner piled high with books like ‘Art in Theory 1900-2000’ and ‘The Myth of Primitivism’. Bucky plonked Steve down on the star patterned bedspread then stared at him, barely believing his luck. He looked amazing, eyes bright, blonde hair all messed up, glasses steamed, legs akimbo. The jeans and white and black baseball t-shirt had to go. Steve seemed to get the message and began wriggling out of his jeans, lifting his arms to let Bucky pull him out of his top before Bucky descended desperately on top of him, pushing him further down the bed, thrilling at the feeling of bare skin touching soft bare skin. Kissing down the pale, fluttering pulse on his neck, Bucky felt Steve’s slim fingers slip into the waistband of his sweatpants. Running his hand down his back, Steve’s eyes widened and he made a tiny noise of shock.

“You’re not wearing underwear?” Bucky laughed. He had forgotten them, as usual, after his post-gym shower.

“Nope.”

“Jesus Christ, that is hot.” Steve was biting his lip, eyes lingering on the tan flesh of his abdomen. Bucky got up on his knees, putting on a bit of a show as he slipped the waistband a little lower on his hips (he could just leave feeling self conscious for later, it was in the heat of the moment and he was too turned on to feel silly) and swore he heard Steve’s breathing speed up, his chest heaving. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m…fuck you’re so...” Bucky laughed, still up on his haunches and ran a hand through his hair, which he did when he felt a little overwhelmed. He was just in his low-slung track pants and staring down, fascinated, at Steve, who was gazing at him like he had just found god. Steve was only wearing his red boxers and his cute little hipster glasses, which he was now removing and setting down on his bedside table. Bucky watched his body strain with the movement. He was so slim but at the same time soft, that face so flushed and pretty, like something from a renaissance fresco of a beautiful youth (Bucky did study some art history in his time, thank you very much). Bucky leant down and kissed him again, softer now, touching his pink cheek with his tattooed hand. It was a little cold, so he shifted Steve around and pulled duvet from under them, draping it over them instead, effectively shielding them in a fabric cave. Steve was grabbing up at his neck, pulling him back down on top of him, apparently enjoying getting crushed by how heavy Bucky was in comparison to his diminutive frame. They were moving together again, starting slow but getting more and more frantic as they ground up against one another, heat building endlessly. Bucky let his mouth drift from Steve’s lips and started mindlessly kissing at his neck, teeth clenched in a grimace as he felt pleasure mounting, sparking up his spine. Steve was grabbing at his hair, pulling but not hurting and Bucky felt an enormous urge to make him feel even better than this, to treat him right. He kissed back up his neck and began mouthing at his ear, which caused Steve to choke on his moan and clench his hair even harder in his fists. 

“Bucky…” Bucky released Steve’s earlobe from his teeth and got back onto his elbows to look at the guy semi-writhing under him. His eyes were so blue, blown, pupils black as anything. So beyond gorgeous, Bucky dropped back down and began whispering soft words in Russian into the shell of Steve’s ear, telling him he was beautiful, telling him how much he wanted to fuck him but not now, next time, telling him that watching him smile from afar had helped him get through two miserable, boring years. Things he would never have the confidence to say in English. Steve didn’t understand, thank god, but seemed to enjoy the sentiment nonetheless, mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut as Bucky let his hand roam all over him. He warmed him up with the flat of his palm, travelling downwards to the front of Steve’s boxers. Head spinning, Bucky stroked the outline of his dick, watching Steve’s face reverently. This was too fucking much. He was gasping like a fish out of water, staring down through a thick fan of eyelashes, which made Bucky twitch in his sweatpants, briefly distracting him from the matter at hand. After a few minutes of this careful touching, Bucky spat inelegantly in his hand and returned it downwards, this time slipping it inside the boxers, which forced a sharp intake of breath from the other man. He wrapped his hand around him and began to move it upwards, creating a steady rhythm, Steve’s whole body tensing in time as he thrust into his hand, head thrown to the side. 

“Fuckkkk.” Breathed Steve, and Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. His already crumbling resolve shattered entirely, red blooming behind his eyes. Apparently hearing that perfect choirboy-looking kid swear was his kryptonite. He hastily shoved down Steve’s boxers, pulled down his sweatpants and began grinding down on him again, already slick, hot and easy. Steve was getting louder, heels digging into Bucky’s calves and hands grabbing at his ass, pulling him even closer to feel that maddening friction. Bucky felt his back sweating, he was breathing so hard it felt like he was running a marathon but he couldn’t fucking stop. Not when he was so fucking close.

It was Steve that came first, eyes rolling back and biting at Bucky’s neck, giving him a first class hicky. Bucky tipped over the edge at the slight tinge of pain from the teeth at his collarbone, coming all over that pale white stomach with a sound that was more of a shout than anything. He quickly rolled onto his back , throwing the covers off them as not to dirty them then let himself melt into the mattress, bones feeling like jelly. He had just experienced what could have been the most intense orgasm of his life, no exaggeration. 

Steve’s breathing was labored, but he shook his head at Bucky when he tried to get up to get an inhaler, turning his face to him and blissfully smiling, a piece of floppy blonde hair plastered to his brow with sweat. They smiled at each other, Steve getting up momentarily to clean off his stomach with a bunch of tissues and pulling up his boxers, then shifted to help Bucky pull up his sweatpants, bunched unceremoniously around his ankles. Bucky felt his mind drifting, he was so incredibly relaxed. He made a noise that was meant to be thank you but sounded more like a yawn and closed his eyes. 

It was only meant to be for a second but as it turned out, Bucky had the best night of sleep he had enjoyed in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah it got steamy…forgive awful sex, i always get so awks writing this stuff! as always, enjoy and if you wanna chat, message me on tumblr - http://honourgirl.tumblr.com
> 
> also fun lil fact Steve's books are from my bookshelf (history of art student fo life) and that art in theory book is fuck massive!


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